Tartarin of Tarascon eBook

The Paris-to-Marseilles express was not yet in, so
Tartarin and his staff went into the waiting-rooms.
To prevent the place being overrun, the station-master
ordered the gates to be closed.

During a quarter of an hour, Tartarin promenaded up
and down in the rooms in the midst of his brother
marksmen, speaking to them of his journey and his
hunting, and promising to send them skins; they put
their names down in his memorandum-book for a lionskin
apiece, as waltzers book for a dance.

Gentle and placid as Socrates on the point of quaffing
the hemlock, the intrepid Tarasconian had a word and
a smile for each. He spoke simply, with an affable
mien; it looked as if, before departing, he meant
to leave behind him a wake of charms, regrets, and
pleasant memories. On hearing their leader speak
in this way, all the sportsmen felt tears well up,
and some were stung with remorse, to wit, Chief Judge
Ladevese and the chemist Bezuquet. The railway
employees blubbered in the corners, whilst the outer
public squinted through the bars and bellowed:
“Long live Tartarin!”

At length the bell rang. A dull rumble was heard,
and a piercing whistle shook the vault.

“The Marseilles express, gen’lemen!”

“Good-bye, Tartarin! Good luck, old fellow!”

“Good-bye to you all!” murmured the great
man, as, with his arms around the brave Commandant
Bravida, he embraced his dear native place collectively
in him. Then he leaped out upon the platform,
and clambered into a carriage full of Parisian ladies,
who were ready to die with fright at sight of this
stranger with so many pistols and rifles.

XIV.
The Port of Marseilles —­ “All aboard, all aboard!”

Upon the 1st of December 18—­, in clear,
brilliant, splendid weather, under a south winter
sun, the startled inhabitants of Marseilles beheld
a Turk come down the Canebiere, or their Regent Street.
A Turk, a regular Turk —­ never had such
a one been seen; and yet, Heaven knows, there is no
lack of Turks at Marseilles.

The Turk in question —­ have I any necessity
of telling you it was the great Tartarin of Tarascon?
—­ waddled along the quays, followed by
his gun-cases, medicine-chest, and tinned comestibles,
to reach the landing-stage of the Touache Company and
the mail steamer the Zouave, which was to transport
him over the sea.

With his ears still ringing with the home applause,
intoxicated by the glare of the heavens and the reek
of the sea, Tartarin fairly beamed as he stepped out
with a lofty head, and between his guns on his shoulders,
looking with all his eyes upon that wondrous, dazzling
harbour of Marseilles, which he saw for the first time.
The poor fellow believed he was dreaming. He
fancied his name was Sinbad the Sailor, and that he
was roaming in one of those fantastic cities abundant
in the “Arabian Nights.” As far as
eye could reach there spread a forest of masts and
spars, cris-crossing in every way.